


Light at the End

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 11:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14831432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Tim finds a monster, and maybe something worth fighting for.





	Light at the End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/gifts).



> Vaguely set in the second half of season 3.

It was blind stupidity to go down into the tunnels. But he’d heard—something. And sure, maybe he’d had a bit too much to drink. (Just another way to make it through the day, Melanie had said, tossing him a beer.) Maybe he was hearing things. Maybe it was the weird eldritch god he’d signed his life away to, forcing him down here. Maybe he just didn’t care anymore.

But whatever it was, it was stupid, because he hadn’t brought a torch. 

He’d only intended to swing the trap door open, just peak inside, see if he saw any worms or the twisted remains of the thing that’d killed Sasha. But all it revealed was a sloping corridor and an uncanny dark. Then he’d heard it again, the odd scraping, and he’d leaned closer, and yeah, definitely a few too many beers. He teetered forward, then with an undignified yelp, fell to the tunnel floor, landing with crunch.

“Fuck,” he hissed, barely catching himself on the slick wall as his vision swam. His ankle throbbed. Getting out of here was going to be a nightmare.

And the scraping was getting louder.

“If you’re watching right now, Elias,” he muttered as he staggered down the tunnel, away from the noise, “I hope you’re having quite the laugh.” Hell, maybe it’d even been Elias who’d orchestrated the whole thing. Tim wouldn’t be the first employee he’d offed. 

The sound was getting closer, something heavy and hard being dragged along the floor. And whatever was dragging it was far stronger, far faster than Tim. He tried to pick up his speed, and almost passed out as he put weight on his ankle. Not happening. 

And then he tripped.

There was no way he would’ve seen the bottle in the darkness, but if his ankle hadn’t been messed up, he might’ve caught himself. Instead he yelped in pain as his full weight came to rest on twisted flesh and bone. Rough stone tore through his shirt, and scraped against the skin of his cheek, leaving hot, wet blood in its wake. The sound had crescendoed to a rumble. And Tim couldn’t move. Not fast enough to escape. There wasn’t any escape from this cursed place, was there? 

“I hope Melanie shanks you,” he mumbled into the floor.

Then the noise stopped, and he heard a familiar voice.

“I think he’s over here!” Martin bumbled into the narrow passage, shining a torch into Tim’s eyes. Well, he guessed this was slightly preferable to being eaten. Or worse.

“Oh, good.” Tim groaned as a second voice spoke up. Of course Jon was here too. Just who he wanted to see. “It wouldn’t do to have anyone else eaten by monsters.” 

“Can you stop babbling and get me out of here?”

“Of course,” Martin said. He was probably smiling in what he thought was a reassuring manner. Tim was glad it was so dark. “Jon, can you take a look?”

“What, you get certified in first aid?” Tim carefully shifted so he was sitting, shoulder pressed against the wall. He squinted at the torch now shining in his eyes.

“I did, actually. It seemed like an increasing occupational necessity.” Jon knelt beside him as Martin hovered over them both and held the torch solicitously. As Jon leaned closer, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Have you been drinking? I didn’t think you’d fallen that far.” 

“Leave him alone, Jon. He’s gone through a lot.” He felt a surge of sick triumph at the look Martin shot his beloved Jon. So apparently he was willing to admit Jon wasn’t perfect. Maybe even a bit of an ass. 

Jon prodded at his ankle, and Tim hissed. “You really have that bedside manner down, don’t you?”

Jon ignored him. Typical. “Not much we can do here. Help me get him back to the door. Good thing he didn’t wander far.”

Wrapping an arm around Tim’s waist, Jon helped him stagger to his feet. He wasn’t a big man, but he was a lot more wiry than expected. 

“Been working out in addition to the first aid?” He was pretty damn sure Jon had been the average weedy nerd when he’d started. 

Martin looked over his shoulder and beamed. “We both have. To help with the whole monster fighting thing.” From the look on Jon’s face, it’d definitely been Martin’s idea. Figured. 

It was a shambling handful of minutes back to the door, slowed down by Tim’s progress, and lengthened further by Martin’s cheery gossip. Every time Martin glanced back, Jon attempted to look interested, but the second he turned back towards the front, his focus was gone. Well, look at that. There was one thing they could agree on.

If Tim were being honest with himself, once he would’ve joined Martin in the gossip, and provided a fair bit himself. 

But now he just wanted to get his ankle fixed. 

They managed to get through the trap door with a fair bit of shoving and improvisation with the rope Martin apparently kept in his desk. They were all a bit grimy, though none a bad as Tim. And while Martin and Jon might be more resigned to their fate, he got the impression they wanted to go home just as much as he did. 

“I’ll call a cab,” Jon said, pulling out his phone. 

Tim slid down against the wall, waving Martin away and letting his eyes droop shut. Whatever the hell was down there, they could deal with it in the morning. Or more accurately Jon could deal with it, or even better, Elias. It was his creepy Institute, he could exterminate the pests. Tim slipped into a daze, dreaming of Elias getting maimed by horrific monsters, and he almost didn’t notice it when Martin stepped closer to Jon as he set down his phone, and put a hand on Jon’s cheek. 

This had to be a fucking joke.

But no, Martin was leaning down to kiss Jon. And sure, Tim had known Martin’d been dying to get into Jon’s pants forever, because Martin had shit taste. But he never thought he’d have the guts to act. Or that Jon had the emotional range or sex drive to reciprocate. But there they were, not just kissing, but making out. Tim squinted. There might be tongue.

And that was just his life now, wasn’t it? Jon and Martin were pulling, and with each other, and Tim hadn’t had any in god knows how long. 

He slumped back against the wall, letting his eyes falls shut, and ignoring the odd warmth as Martin draped a jacket over him a minute later. 

***

Martin was hovering, buoyed by a worried expression and a cup of tea that he immediately thrust into Tim’s hands. Darjeeling, his favorite. Which Martin knew, because he was Martin.

“I broke my ankle, not both my legs, I’m still perfectly capable of getting my own drinks.” Tim glared at the cup, then took a sip. 

“I was up anyway.” Liar. “And I get lots of people tea.” But mostly just Jon, who was apparently Martin’s _boyfriend._ Tim’s stomach squirmed. He wondered if Martin would get him a bucket. 

“And anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to come to lunch with me.” 

Tim gave him a flat look, watching him wring his hands. Very smooth, he could see how Martin had swept Jon off his feet. 

“I don’t know, not sure I’m allowed to go get lunch.” He flipped aggressively to the next page of _Specimens of Continental Architecture_ , one of the few books he liked that he could justify as research. 

“Why wouldn’t you be allowed?” 

Tim ignored Martin, and continued reading. This was the fourth copy he’d tried, and while it didn’t seem to be the sort of book Leitner had collected before his brutal pipe murder, there was definitely something off about it. He’d plucked it from the shelves of the British Library. Good thing they were on such excellent terms with the Institute. 

“You need a break, Tim.” Martin gently tugged the book away, and Tim shot him an irritable glare. There was some sort of bruise on his neck—

Fuck this.

“Shouldn’t you be spending your time shagging our boss?” He tugged the book back from Martin’s limp hands. 

“Oh.” Martin’s voice was high and small. And Tim felt like a dick. More of one than usual. Because Martin, of all people, didn’t really deserve this. And once upon a time, maybe he would’ve apologized, swayed by the almost undetectable tremor in Martin’s hand. 

But now? He read his book, and barely spared Martin a glance as the door shut behind him with a click. Peace and quiet, or what passed for it in this hellhole, the clock ticking away the pointless hours. The familiar words blurred before his eyes, and he pushed the book away in disgust. Reaching for the tea, he took another sip. Sweetened with honey, just how he liked it. Damn Martin. Why did he keep trying? He should apologize, but he knew if he tried to, his words would come out twisted and wrong. This place had ruined him, like it ruined everything. Picking the book up, he hurled it towards the door.

Heard a soft grunt of pain.

Jon scooped the book up and made his way cautiously towards where Tim was huddled behind a desk, still holding Martin’s tea close.

“You—” He braced himself for the lecture he was certain was coming. And then Jon’s shoulders slumped, and he dropped into the chair across from Tim with a sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, like the words cost him.

Tim snorted. “What for? Didn’t think you broke my ankle.” He wished he still had the book. Maybe he could chuck it at Jon again, make him go away. Martin was probably crying in the toilets, just waiting for Jon to run after him.

“So what sort of pet names does Martin go for? Honeybunch? Sugarplum?” He paused, savoring the next word as it landed. “Boo?”

Jon winced, tugging at a stray thread trailing from the sleeve of his jumper. “I think you’ve managed to find a word I detest more than ‘spooky.’”

“I didn’t know, I think it suits you. Didn’t you accuse Martin of being a ghost?” 

“Did Martin tell you that? Because that is a grave misrepresentation of—”

Tim couldn’t help it. He laughed.

“You didn’t mean to do that, did you?” At Jon’s glare, he laughed harder. “No, you can’t have. You don’t have a sense of humor.”

“Well, as long as you’re happy,” Jon said, with all the petulance of an uptight Archivist. 

“Making fun of you always warms my heart.” Tim took a another sip of tea, and almost spat it out. Because Jon was actually _smiling_.

“I’m glad I could help.” He set the book on the desk, and nudged it towards Tim. His eyes darted towards the door, like he was worried about someone on the other side. Martin, probably. It was exactly the sort of thing he’d do. He probably wasn’t even upset, he was worried, concerned for your mental wellbeing, Tim, and have you considered trying mindfulness? It does wonders for your mood. 

“And Tim.” Jon stood, hand lingering on the desk, fingers thin and curved like spider legs. For once, he didn’t want to smash. “If there’s anything—I mean—” He licked his lips, stuffed the hand in his pocket. “Just let me know?”

“You got it, boss.” He could’ve left it there. “And Jon?”

Jon’s hand rested on the handle, and as he turned back towards Tim, he almost seemed to perk up. “Yes, Tim?”

“Don’t shag Martin in the office.”

***

For the next few weeks, Martin continued to be unusually nice, even for Martin, bringing him tea and lunch and even baking him cookies once. They were dreadful, but Tim had kept them anyways, in the hopes that perhaps he could use them to poison the monster that lurked in the tunnels, or failing that, the one that signed his paycheck. And Jon? He kept trying to talk to Tim. Sometimes Tim even found himself falling for it, teasing him like he’d done before everything good had been eaten away. Jon was awkward beyond belief, aping the sort of small talk and social niceties that had used to come to Tim so easily. But it was almost better than nothing.

And there was the knocking, right on cue.

“Come in,” Tim said, shoving his book aside. He leaned back in the chair, letting his eyes fall half-shut. Didn’t want Jon getting any ideas about him actually enjoying their weird little chats.

The door clicked shut, and Jon crossed the room, coming around the desk to stand in front of Tim. His eyes narrowed. Usually Jon wisely kept his distance. Which meant—

“What do you want?” This sort of thing didn’t come easily to Jon, the manipulation, the dance of persuasive give and take. It was a damn good thing he had his weird powers, or he’d be hopeless at getting people to talk. As hopeless as he’d be getting what he wanted from Tim.

“Why are you assuming I want something?” He was tugging at the sleeve of the too large jumper. With a sickening lurch, Tim realized it must be Martin’s. 

Yeah, he’d had enough of this.

“Just spit it out so I can get back to work.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Oh, is that what you—” Jon took a deep breath. Practicing some restraint for once. Maybe Martin was good for him after all. “I need to ask you a favor. Two favors.”

“Oh, that’ll cost you, boss. How about a nice redundancy package?” His eyes trailed down Jon’s body. The shirt under his jumper was unbuttoned, the collar askew, revealing an expanse of skin marred only by what looked to be a bite. From a human. At least someone was having fun.

“You know I can’t do that.” Tim felt a satisfied warmth in his chest as Jon’s hands tightened into fists, then relaxed again. “Please just listen.”

“Not much I can do to stop you.” Jon was doing a surprisingly good job keeping himself under control. Maybe shagging Martin helped him let off steam. Among other things. 

Jon placed a hand on the desk, and leaned in, his sleeve riding up and exposing his red lined wrist. “I’m treading a dangerous path, Tim. Elias is a monster, and I’m no loner certain Gertrude was any better. I don’t want to become that. And I don’t think Martin is strong enough to pull me back.”

“Or to kill you.” He hadn’t been out on any sort of information gathering mission lately. Which meant that wasn’t from some monster tying him up. Which meant that against all odds, it was probably Martin. Always the nice ones, wasn’t it? Tim wondered what it’d be like, letting sweet, conciliatory Martin tie him up. Crazy, just thinking about it. “And you know, I think Martin is showing a surprising amount of restraint.”

“What in god’s name—” 

Tim leaned forward and wrapped his hand around Jon’s wrist, covering the marks. Jon shivered, and his cheeks turned a blotchy red. Taking Jon to pieces. Martin might’ve had the right of it. He was beginning to see the appeal.

Jon closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. Then he continued.

“I’m not worried about Martin having to kill me. If it comes to that, I’m sure Daisy will be happy to oblige. But you’ve always had a keen eye, Tim.” An eye, of course that’s what he’d say. “And a good heart. So please, if you think I’m going too far. Let me know.”

“Have I ever kept my opinions to myself?” 

Jon chuckled. “No. I can’t say you have.” He looked down at Tim’s hand, and gently pulled free. 

“And Tim, I just wanted to apologize. Again. I know that it might not mean much, but I truly am sorry. I behaved poorly, and there’s no excuse for that.”

What amusement Tim had gleaned from Jon’s relationship with Martin drained away. This was why Jon was so bad with people. He always brought up the things they wanted to talk about the least.

“The great Jonathan Sims, the _Archivist_ , apologizing to me?”

“Do you want me to get on my knees and beg?”

All at once, his blood rushed south at the mere suggestion of Jon kneeling. He was keenly aware of where it would put Jon, what Jon could do. And damn him, he wanted it. He dug his fingers into the wooden arm of the chair.

“I don’t know. Couldn’t hurt.”

To his utter shock, Jon dropped to his knees, inches from Tim’s legs, close enough his hand brushed against Tim’s trousers. He sucked in a breath, hoping to hell Jon hadn’t noticed how the display was affecting him. It’d ruin the moment, and he wanted to savor it. 

“Not bad.” Before he could think better of it, he reached out and patted Jon on the head, and laughed at his disgruntled expression. “So what do you want?”

“I’m leaving.” Again. Of course. “I want to you to keep an eye on Martin. He’s been acting odd, lately.”

“Lately?”

“Even odder than usual.” He shifted onto his haunches. Tim’s hands itched with the desire to pull him back. “Please, Tim. Martin hasn’t done anything wrong. Just make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.”

“Easier said than done.” 

Jon sighed in agreement, and slowly got to his feet, face cast with pain a man his age shouldn’t feel. He held his hand out to Tim, and after a moment, Tim took it. His skin was butter smooth and warm.

“Do we have an agreement?” 

“Fine.”

Jon nodded, and turned towards the door. Tim considered reminding him to keep his sex life out of the Institute, but on second thought—no. It wasn’t so bad having these reminders that maybe the Archivist was human after all.

***

The clock hit noon, and Tim got to his feet with a groan, tucking the crutch under his arm and hobbling over to the door. Jon was leaving today, and he’d somehow managed to strong-arm Tim in eating with Martin during his absence, despite Tim’s very valid point that Martin was a big boy who was perfectly capable of eating alone. Jon had muttered something about that not being the point, running a hand through his hair before going back to flipping through a statement. So Tim had agreed, on top of all the things he’d already agreed to. Sure as hell was easier than arguing. 

But as he leaned his crutch against the wall and prepared to knock on the door of Jon’s office, where he’d said Martin would be waiting, he heard voices. Jon was still here.

“I think we should just talk about it, Jon.” Martin was using his soothing voice, the one he brought out when he thought someone was being unreasonable, but didn’t dare confront them directly.

“Do you really think that’ll go over well?” Jon scoffed. Tim rolled his eyes. Typical Jon, rejecting any idea he hadn’t come up with. If this was about people, he was certain Martin had the right of it. He at least had the bare minimum of socialization than Jon seemed to have missed out on. 

Martin sighed, and then there was a heavy silence. Tim leaned against the door, straining to hear. The rustle of clothing, a soft, wet sound, a bitten off noise. Oh, great. They were at it again. Something hot rose in Tim’s chest, gripping his heart and catching in his throat. Did they really need to do that here? And now? His thoughts drifted back to Jon kneeling before him, and he wondered how much better he’d like that mouth filled—

“Look, we can talk about this when you get back. Just be safe, okay?” Another wet smack, and Tim realized that now was probably his cue to knock. 

“Yes?” Jon answered. “Come in.”

Tim fumbled with the handle, and the door swung open to reveal Martin fussing with Jon’s shirt. He guessed he’d made it abundantly clear to both of them he knew. No point in hiding now. 

“Sorry, did you want me to come back later? Office romances are just so complicated.” 

To his surprise, neither Martin nor Jon replied to his quip, just traded an unreadable look. Jon shook his head, and Martin sighed. 

“Remember what we talked about, Tim,” said Jon as he brushed past Tim and headed out the door. For a moment his hand lingered on Tim’s arm, and Tim almost asked him where he was going. 

Then he remembered he didn’t care.

“So Martin, how do you feel about sandwiches?” Tim held up a brown paper and shook it enticingly. “Only the best cuts of lunch meat from Tesco.”

“You brought me lunch?”

Of course that’s what Martin would focus on. 

“More accurately Jon bought us both lunch.” He’d almost thrown the money back in Jon’s face, but decided it was better to take it. He didn’t want Jon to feel like a martyr, after all. And he fully intended to keep the change.

“That was nice of him,” Martin said, glancing sideways at Tim as they walked out of the Institute towards a small local park. So easy to fall into old habits, wasn’t it? They’d used to come here all the time, in the early days. Him and Martin and Sa—

“Only what he owes. Less, in fact.” Tim almost threw the bag at the wooden bench, mood darkening despite the sunny day. Did Jon truly think he could buy his way back into Tim’s good graces? He was better off with the kneeling. He tore open the bag, ignoring the way Martin jumped, jostling his arm, and took a vicious bite of ham sandwich.

With far more care, Martin reached for the bag, hand brushing against Tim’s thigh, almost seeming to linger before he plucked a tuna salad sandwich from the stack. He peeled back the plastic, considered it, then took a dainty bite, chewing thoughtfully.

“Have you heard anything weird in the tunnels lately? I mean, after that time we found you.” 

Peak Martin, right there. Jon would’ve said rescued, by Martin wouldn’t dare imply anything that might offend Tim. Pity Tim didn’t care. 

“Yeah, I get it. You saved my arse. And no, I haven’t heard anything else.” A lie, but not like Martin would see through it.

“Oh.” Martin took a thoughtful bite. He seemed to be pressing closer to Tim, almost plastered against his side. He’d always thought Martin was clingy, but this was a bit much. “I have. Kind of a weird scraping noise. Is that what you heard before?”

Well, shit.

“I mean, who knows. I was drunk. Can we just drop it?” He moved to the far edge of the bench, and tried to ignore the way Martin’s wounded look made his heart clench.

“If you want to, I guess.” Another bite of sandwich, another minute of contemplative chewing. The look from before was gone. “I just worry about you.” He scooted closer. 

“You worry about everyone.” Tim shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth so Martin couldn’t force him to talk. He’d have grabbed another, but Martin had placed the bag out of reach, and himself easily within it.

“I just want you to be okay. And I know, I know, before you say anything.” Tim grunted around a mouthful of sandwich. Martin sighed. “I know it’s been hard. For you especially. But you just have to make the best of things, you know? We can’t run, so we—” 

Tim swallowed. “So we what? We just accept it, pretend it’s all we happy few, we band of contractual prisoners, striving against the forces of evil together? Because it’s not.”

“No, I just want you to fight!” He actually grabbed Tim’s hand, and Tim was far too shocked to protest. “You’ve given up, Tim. And it worries me. Yes, worries. I don’t care that you don’t like it.”

Tim slumped back against the bench. No point in arguing with Martin when he got like this, was there? No point at all. He ignored the warmth of Martin’s hand, the ways fingers rubbed soothing circles into Tim’s wrist. 

“Why bother,” he muttered. A hawk swooped down and scooped up a mouse that had ventured too far from its burrow, talons crunching in the soft flesh. 

“Fine. Maybe you’ve given up.” Tim yelped as Martin grabbed his arm and heaved him to his feet with surprising strength. “But I haven’t.”

There was nothing he could say to that. 

***

Martin was a bloody idiot. And Tim planned on telling him so the second he finished saving his life. Or died trying, which seemed more likely as he hobbled over to the open trap door, a torch tucked under one arm and the crutch under the other. He eyed the black pit he was apparently going to jump into, then flung the crutch down, wincing at the clatter. If he wasn’t careful, that’d be his bones clattering against the hard floor. 

Taking a deep breath, he tucked the battered copy of _Specimens of Continental Architecture_ he’d dug out of the mouldering ruins of an abandoned charity shop into his waistband, and lowered himself carefully down. He hit the floor with an audible thud, landing hard on his good ankle. But it held, and it was doing a damn sight better than his bad one, so he’d take it. He settled the crutch back under his arm, and began to follow the line of rope Martin had so carefully laid to mark his path. As he neared the end of the corridor, he gave it an experimental tug.

And felt a tug in response.

That was either very good or very bad. He wasn’t sure whatever it was that had found its way down here was capable of tugging, but these monsters seemed to manage all sorts of unexpected things. Switching the torch to the his other hand, he pulled the book from his trousers, angling the light so he could read the page he’d marked. 

“On the construction of Millbank Prison,” he read, then continued following the rope. He ignored the way the walls seemed to waver around him, instead focusing on the text, mouthing the words as he made slow painful progress along the tunnel. Words detailing the steps Smirke had taken, and why, and how he’d constructed the changing labyrinth below. And how Jonah Magnus had come to him, and—

Shifting cloth, the scrape of metal against the wall. Tim dropped the floor, grunting in pain, but not a damn lot else he could do but keep reading.

“The properties of the tunnels, constructed in this manner, are most curious,” he said.

“Tim?” A voice pitched high and frightened. Unmistakably Martin.

“Oh good. I didn’t actually fancy dying down here.” He leaned gratefully against Martin’s bulk as he was dragged to his feet, the arm around his waist lingering even after he’d regained his footing. For once, he didn’t complain. Everything about this place gave him the creeps, and Martin might not be any protection, but as comfort, there was worse.

It could be Jon, after all. 

“Tim, what are you doing here?” Martin’s voice was low in his ear, hot breath a welcome contrast to the cold and clammy corridors. 

“Trying to save you, you daft idiot. Why the hell did you come down here alone?” 

“I’m not stupid. I brought supplies.” There was a long knife tucked into his belt next to what looked to be a police baton. Tim gave them a dubious look. “And I was only going to investigate, really. I mean, if it was going to just kill us, why not do that in the Archives?”

“Because the Archives are the stronghold of a spooky eye that keeps us all prisoner, maybe?” 

“Oh. Right, that—that makes sense.” 

“Don’t worry, though. I’ve been digging into the tunnels, I think I have us a way out.”

“I brought rope—”

Tim yanked on the rope, and watched Martin’s face fall as the clean cut end was drawn into the circle of light, stained a hideous red.

“Oh no.” Martin had always had a gift for understatement.

“Oh yes,” Tim said. “We need to get out of here. Now.” 

The sound of heavy, rusting metal on stone rang out, followed by the wet thunk of flesh. They shared a look, then Martin let Tim go, drawing his knife and clutching it tight.

As they made their way slowly through the tunnels, the sound followed them, seeing to echo from all directions, sometimes louder, sometimes softer. More than once Martin brushed against him, pressing their shoulders together, and Tim wasn’t sure if he was trying to give comfort, or take it. Probably both, knowing Martin. Finally they reached a crossroads, and Tim grabbed Martin’s sleeve. 

“This is where we need to be.” He began to thumb through the book while Martin shone the light down each corridor, revealing nothing but rough hewn stone. 

“Tim.” He ignored Martin, biting his tongue and trying to block out the low moan reverberating through the tunnels. He knew it was here, it had to be—

“Tim,” Martin repeated, placing a hand on his cheek, forcing him to look up. Even in the indirect light of the torches, Martin was flushed, face cast in mulish determination. 

“This really isn’t the time, Martin.” For what, he didn’t know, but whatever it was, he was certain it could wait until they weren’t in mortal peril. 

“Shut up, Tim.” Then he gave Tim a peck on the lips, just the briefest brush of warm cracked skin and the hint of curry he’d had for lunch. 

Tim was _really_ off his game. Because he should’ve seen this, whatever this was, coming from a mile away. He wasn’t a bad looking bloke. He was charming, or he had been. He knew how to flirt, and he knew when someone was flirting with him. But now—

“Jon’s not going to be happy with you.” A stupid thing to say, but his mind was nearly blank. 

“You really don’t know, do you?” 

“Know what?” Tim said before he could think better of it. “Wait, you know what? It doesn’t matter. Whatever strange little kink you’re indulging here, I don’t care. We are going to be killed by a monster if I don’t start reading right now.”

“Good luck,” Martin said. He was smiling, the utter loon. Tim ignored the flutter in his chest. The Archives had finally cracked Martin. But Tim might still make it out, so it was time to give them a fighting chance.

“Flesh can be contained in the twisting patterns of the Spiral. Buried under the damp weight of the earth. Far more dangerous prisoners than men will dwell in these Vast depths, and I will Behold them all.” 

Martin raised the knife. His hand was shaking, the light wavering and revealing tortured meat and oozing blood, before plunging it back into darkness.

“I will Hunt them through these halls and bind them in my Web. No Stranger shall wander free. For you that treads these paths, this is the End.”

For a moment, the monster was illuminated in the bright light of the torch. It might’ve been human, once. Or more likely multiple people, all stitched together, creating the shambling corpse of a creature before them. Tim could smell its fetid breath, and froze as it lifted one massive limb.

Then the tunnels shifted. 

It wasn’t what he’d expected, not the grate of stone, the slide of hidden walls and ancient mechanisms. Instead the tunnel just _melted_ , sliding across the floor in a wavering line and boxing the monster in. 

Martin stood there, gaping, but Tim wasn’t going to look a gift magic tunnel in the corridor. He wrapped his hand around Martin’s arm and gave it a firm tug.

“If you don’t want to end up like that did, we need to go. Now.” The walls around them were drooping. Tim might’ve overdone it. 

“Right. Yeah. Let’s go.” Martin shook his head, and still managed to give Tim a worried look, like he wasn’t the one who’d needed saving. 

From the way the tunnels rumbled as they traveled through them, they might not be usable for a while. Unless Tim managed to master the book, but he wasn’t sure that was the best idea. Not yet, at least. It was slow going, the click of the crutch on the floor, and Martin hindering his progress through his attempts to help. But finally they made it, scrambling into the musty, bright air of the Archives. 

“Jon will want to know about this,” Martin said, as he shoved the trapdoor shut. 

“I’m not giving him my statement.”

“Not sure you’ll have a choice.” Martin said it with a small smile, clearly meaning it as a joke. But Tim felt suddenly cold. Strong enough to pull him back. 

Or do whatever necessary. 

***

“Martin, tell me what happened in the tunnels.” Jon sat behind his desk, utterly impassive, as the tape recorder clicked on

“Whatever anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid. I listened, collected supplies. Waited for the right moment. And I never intended to fight it, not once. I just wanted to see, to—”

Tim slammed a fist into the desk, and barely felt the pain. Jon and Martin both jumped, as if coming out of a daze, and stared at Tim with wide eyes. He only hesitated a moment before grabbing the tape recorder and yanking out the tape.

“Stop it.” 

“Jon just wanted to know what happened.” Martin wrapped his hand around Tim’s wrist, and it was all he could do not to slap it away.

“No, Martin.” Jon pushed his chair back, and came around the desk to stand next to him. “He’s right. I was compelling you. It comes far too easily, these days.”

To Tim’s shock, he squeezed Tim’s shoulder, and actually smiled. 

“Are you sure you’re really Jon? Not replaced by some—” He couldn’t even finish the thought. “Though I guess I wouldn’t know, would I?”

“A replacement wouldn’t have the powers,” Martin said. He sounded so certain that Tim couldn’t doubt him. Which was a problem all its own. Because Martin shouldn’t have that certainty. Shouldn’t—know. But then after Jon, Martin had taken to it best. This thing they served. 

Maybe Tim would have to watch them both.

“I guess there’s some comfort in the creepy mind control powers, then.” Jon still hadn’t moved away. Neither had Martin. And suddenly Tim remembered the moment in the tunnels when Martin had kissed him. He considered telling Jon, embarrassing him in front of Martin. Maybe destroying their relationship. So they’d suffer like he did. He looked down at Martin and saw dark circles under his eyes. And over to Jon, who’d missed a faint trace of blood on his cheek.

Before Tim could think better of it, he’d wet his finger and reached out to wipe to blood away. Jon’s lips parted, and Tim realized all of a sudden that he wanted to kiss Jon. Right here, right now, while Martin’s hand trailed down his wrist to weave their fingers together. 

And then another realization slammed into him, and he wanted to scream.

“Have you both been trying to hit on me?” His voice cracked at the end, because was absurd, wasn’t it? He hated Jon, barely tolerated Martin, and would do anything to escape. And here they were, the happy, monster loving couple, trying to, what? Seduce him to the dark side?

Martin’s hand tightened around his. Jon let go, look a step back.

“I—I don’t really know what you’re talking about.” It was almost the worst lie Tim had ever heard.

“I kissed him, Jon. In the tunnels.” He could feel Martin stand behind him, still holding his hand. “I told you, we should just talk to him.”

“Really? Is this really the result you were hoping for?” Jon said. He’d turned that blotchy red again.

Tim looked back at Martin, whose lips quirked into an odd smile. Before he could think better of it, he brushed their lips together. Martin tasted unpleasantly of tunnel dirt, but he was a better kisser than Tim had expected from that peck before. 

Then he turned to Jon. Letting Martin’s hand drop, he took two long steps, then shoved Jon up against his desk, burying his hand in Jon’s hair and pushing his tongue into his mouth. Jon stiffened, then relaxed, hand sliding under Tim’s shirt and coming to rest against the small of his back. His skin was just as soft as before, but for once, Tim didn’t think about why. He just enjoyed the way Jon felt against him, giving Tim control, for once yielding his power and letting someone use their tongue on him.

After a moment, he felt warm breath on the back of his neck, and a hand snaked around his waist, reaching past him to pull Jon closer. And for just this moment, Tim was almost okay.

Then he pulled back, keeping his hand in Jon’s hair, and met his eyes. “I still hate you.” It was the worst lie he’d ever heard.

“Good,” Jon said. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“You’re a sanctimonious arsehole,” he said, then turned to Martin. “And you’re an overly optimistic doormat.”

“You want to get a drink with us later?” Martin said, wrapping his arm around Jon’s waist and holding a hand out to Tim.

And Tim smiled.

“Absolutely.”

**Author's Note:**

> The book Tim has is a real one that Robert Smirke published. Though of course his copy isn't like any of the ones in official records.


End file.
